Well of the Damned (35 page)

Pressing
her ear to the door, she heard the eery silence that came just before
death.

Just
in case, she dug into her knapsack for the remainder of the serragan
powder, tapped some onto the palm of her left hand, and quietly drew
her sword, which she used to push the bottom bar to the right,
unlocking the door. She waited. If no one was there, she would feel
awfully foolish, but better to feel foolish than to die a third time.
If Kinshield had somehow tracked her here, he’d have with him
Daia and Brawna at least, and perhaps others as well. The queen had
her guards, and the lordover’s armsmen would surely be at the
king’s beck and call. An entire army could be standing outside
her door now, ready to arrest her or worse, carry out the king’s
execution. She had, after all, killed Vandra, the warrant knight
Calinor, and the surgeon and his wife, whose names she’d
already forgotten.

No
,
she thought. If he had all those battlers, they’d have just
broken down the door and stormed the room.

She
lifted the other bar and eased the door open, peeking out through the
crack. No one there. She opened the door a bit more and waited, but
nothing happened. She looked out, ready for the battlers there to
take her down, but the street was clear.

She
let the powder fall back into its bag, tied the bag closed and tucked
it into the top of her boot. The feeling of being constantly pursued
was no delusion, though she felt ridiculously self-conscious. She
went around the building to the street and checked in both
directions. No one seemed to be paying her any attention, and so she
walked calmly but alertly towards the temple.

The
entrance consisted of two wide doors into which symbols of divinity
and angels and other crap were carved. Inside, long benches were
arranged in rows on both sides of an aisle that led to the altar,
where the golden flames of dozens of candles flickered. Behind the
altar on a dais was a tall marble statue of a bald-headed man, his
hands clasped in front of his navel. The statue was standing in the
sacramental font.

As
soon as Cirang walked in, the worry that had nagged her dissipated.
So profound was the difference that for an instant, she wondered
whether the god Asti-nayas really was present. She looked up without
thinking towards the heavens. More symbols of divinity had been
painted on the temple’s arched ceiling, many of which were
accented by gold and gems. Magic, she knew, was strengthened by gems,
but how were gems relevant in a house of worship? She was certain the
religious doctrines forbade the use of magic within the temple. Did
all temples have gems embedded in their ceilings? She searched her
childhood memories of visits to the temple with her parents but
couldn’t recall ever seeing gems.

Several
people were seated on the benches near the front of the nave, closest
to the altar, their heads bowed in reverence. At the altar, a cleric
in a plain brown robe was chanting, waving his arm in the gesture of
subservience. He tapped his forehead, chest, and navel, and bowed.
Forehead, chest, navel, bow. No one seemed to notice her enter, and
so she took a seat on the bench closest to the door and watched.

One
woman, a plump redhead, stood and climbed the three steps beside the
altar to ascend the dais. A woman in a white robe bowed with her
hands clasped like the statue’s were. Under the hood that
covered her hair, a lace veil covered her face, obscuring her
identity. She was perfect.

The acolyte dipped a ladle into
the font and poured the water into a small cup. The worshiper raised
it to her lips and made the gesture of subservience before handing
the cup back and descending the steps. She didn’t retake her
seat on the bench but instead strode down the aisle towards the door.
As she passed Cirang, she smiled and nodded.

One
by one, the other worshipers repeated the ritual and left. Cirang
wondered whether she would be discovered here because the people who
were leaving would remember her if questioned by Kinshield. She rose
and went to the altar, her footsteps loud on the bare wood floor.
Except for the chanting cleric and the acolyte serving the
sacramental water, she was alone.

On
each side of the altar was a closed door. She opened the one on the
right and looked inside, but it was too dark to see anything. The
cleric was busy chanting, his eyes closed and his hand moving. The
acolyte was kneeling before the statue at the base of the font on the
dais and spared her not even a glance. Cirang took one of the candles
from the altar and, cupping its flame with a hand, carried it into
the room. No one noticed her. Too trusting, she supposed.
Their
own faith will be their downfall.
She snickered.

The
room appeared to be a supply room, with several buckets stacked
neatly against the wall and three wooden yokes with ropes attached to
each end. There was a public well not far away, and so Cirang
surmised this was how they kept the font filled. She lifted a hatch
in the center of the floor and peered into the darkness. If nothing
else, it might be a good place to hide until she could dump the
wellspring water into the font. Quietly, she climbed down into the
cellar.

About
the size of her old gaol cell, it was musty like any other cellar but
furnished with a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor, small pillow
and wool blanket, and an overturned crate as a table. It would do. It
would do nicely.

She
set the candle on the crate and her knapsack beside it, and then
lowered herself onto the bed with the groan of a much older woman.
She didn’t know how much sleep she would get until she was
discovered, but she was willing to take her chances. If one of the
clerics lived here, he’d better be prepared to call on his god
to save him, because nothing else would. She unstrapped her weapons,
blew out the candle and embraced the darkness.

With
none of the worries that had plagued her at the inn, she fell into a
comfortable sleep and dreamed of grateful people dropping coins and
gems at her feet as she ladled cup after cup of water into their
eager mouths.

Chapter 40

With
the help of two of the lordover’s armsmen, Gavin and Daia made
their way through the eager and growing crowd to the Gwanry Museum of
History, which had once been a large house. The sitting room, dining
hall and music room were converted to display rooms with rows of
shelves upon which ancient artifacts were neatly arranged. Gavin had
come to know most of the items in the King Arek room, with the help
of the assistant curator, Tolia. She’d read him the letters
King Arek and Queen Calewyn had written, and told him the story
behind objects they’d owned or given to others. He’d
hoped they would shed light on what had happened to King Arek, but
now he knew more from experience than he’d ever learned at the
museum.

When
he and Daia stepped into the foyer, Tolia rounded the corner. She
was, as always, crisply dressed with her gray-streaked brown hair
wound into a neat bun. “Your Majesty!“ she said with a
broad smile. She dipped a low and impressive curtsy as though she’d
been practicing, but she was slow to rise.

He
took her elbow and helped her stand. “My lady Tolia, it’s
always a pleasure to see you.”

Tolia
batted her eyelashes at him. In the past, he had flirted with her,
not out of genuine interest, but because she was learned and a former
lordover’s granddaughter, and he was a warrant knight of hearty
peasant stock. They’d been worlds apart culturally and it had
become a game between them. Now that he was a king — and a
married king at that — flirting with her would have been
indelicate, even if she understood it was only in jest. “And
you.” She gazed up at him with the large, unblinking eyes and a
silly smile plastered on her face.

“I
understand you have something for me.”

She
blinked and started, seeming to snap out of whatever trance she was
in. “Yes, I do. Your First Royal left it with me yesterday.
Please allow me to take your cloaks.” Gavin and Daia removed
their rain cloaks, shook off the water and handed them to her. She
hung them on a hook near the door. “Let me get that book for
you, but first...” She glanced uneasily at Daia. “May I
have a moment with you? Privately?”

Daia
raised her brows at Tolia, but Gavin reassured her with a nod. “Give
us a minute,” he said, and she inclined her head and went into
the King Arek room.

Tolia
seemed more alive than he’d ever seen her, and breathless as if
she’d been running. Her eyes sparkled and danced. She put one
delicate hand on Gavin’s mailed chest. “I wanted you to
know I feel the same way. No disrespect to the queen.”

He
waited for her to explain what she was talking about, but she didn’t
go on. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You
know,” she said. “Our feelings for each other. I know
you’re married now, and it would be disgraceful to divorce your
wife, especially now that she’s pregnant. I’ve never said
this to anyone before, but I would move to Tern if you asked it of
me. You could visit anytime, day or night.”

He
was stunned to momentary silence. He’d never thought she would
take his flirtations seriously, nor had he ever considered she
might’ve had feelings for him. She had always maintained a
certain coolness, drawing an understood line for how far he could
take the jests, and he’d never crossed that line. Now she was
leaning towards him with her head craned back, lips pushed forward
into an expectant pout.

He
took her hand from his chest and held it gently, fragile and small in
his meaty paw. “Tolia, I always thought we were playin’ a
game, and we both understood it. I’m sorry, but I only have
feelings for my wife. It’s why I married her.”

Tolia
drew back, her face reddening into a mask of shock and embarrassment.
“But... your First Royal said—” She put a hand over
her mouth, and her eyes welled.

“The
one who brought the journal? She told you I had feelings for you?”

She
nodded, knocking the tears loose to spill down her face.

“That
wasn’t a First Royal. She murdered one o’my guards and
stole her armor and weapons. She left me the journal hoping I
wouldn’t chase her down and kill her. I’m sorry she
deceived you. I love my wife.”

With
her eyes lowered, Tolia whispered an apology. “If you’ll
pardon me, I’ll fetch it from the vault.”

Gavin nodded, and she curtsied
before dashing away. He could guess how embarrassed she felt right
then, and he didn’t want to make matters worse for her.

“How
are we going to get out of here?” Daia asked, rejoining him in
the foyer. “If we don’t disguise you somehow, you’ll
never get close enough to Cirang for us to capture her.” She
peeked through the curtains at the crowd outside.

“Disguise
me how? I’ve never been a man who blended into a crowd.”

She
let the curtain drop and assessed him thoughtfully. “You’re
not the only tall man in Thendylath. We just need a way to cover your
head. Your rain cloak isn’t going to do it — something
like a cleric’s robe.”

“And
cover my sword. People have surely heard about Aldras Gar, too. A
cleric wouldn’t be walking around with such a weapon.”

Tolia
returned empty handed with a flush on her face and eyes rimmed in
red. “I— I beg your pardon. I must ask Mr. Surraent—”

“It
ain’t there?” he asked.

“Perhaps
he took it out.” She wrung her hands. “I’m sure
it’s safe. Let me ask him.”

“No,
I’ll do it.” Gavin started up the stairs. “He’s
up here, ain’t he?”

“Yes,
but—”

“If
he has it,” he called behind him, “you’d better get
some bandages ready.” Gavin reached the top with Daia on his
heel. Thick red carpeting muffled his steps as he stormed past four
closed doors to the one at the end of the hall. He opened it without
knocking and caught Laemyr Surraent with two books open, and a quill
in one hand, writing furiously.

The
curator jumped with a surprised squeak. The pen scratched a line
across the page he’d been writing. “Gavin! Er, I mean,
King Gavin. What a—”

“Where
is it?”

Surraent
stood, setting the quill down on a wooden platter and pushing his
spectacles up his nose with his free hand. “Where is what, my
liege?”

Gavin
approached the desk and pointed to the smaller of the two books, the
one the curator had been copying from. “Is that it? Is that my
journal?”

Surraent
tried a dim smile. “Oh, is that yours? I found it in our vault
and hadn’t seen it before. It was such an intriguing—”

“Whatever
pages you copied into your encyclopaedia — tear them out.”

“Copied?
Oh, no. You misunderstand. I was merely writing my own notes.”

Daia
went around to Surraent’s side of the desk, nudged him aside
and flipped through both the encyclopaedia and the journal. “Copied.”